


Weightless

by Davechicken



Series: The Emperor and his Knight [12]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe isn't the only one who can fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weightless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themes_of_November](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themes_of_November/gifts).



Kylo finds his Emperor waiting for him, as promised. He occasionally is told times and places to attend, and it normally also means ‘scrubbed clean and ready’. If Poe wants him grimy from training, he normally just absconds with him right from the dojo. This was planned, so Kylo is perfectly groomed and waiting.

He doesn’t usually wear his mask in private, now, unless Poe feels like being twisted and kinky in that particular way. Mostly the lack of eyes and mouth are a deterrent, and if he _does_ start out masked, he’s normally stripped of it before the end of the session. Even if it’s the last thing to go, with Poe holding onto the faceplate as he fucks his pet blind. 

Knowing it was not one of those days (he’d have been told, or kidnapped), he had dressed from the ‘fresher in a simple, loose tunic and soft pants. Bare feet, and his best collar put on the soft cushion to be brought forward and offered to Poe with a submissive drop to one knee before him. He keeps his head lowered as Poe hitches it around his neck, the official acknowledgement that things are about to _begin_.

After all, whilst Poe is the Emperor, Kylo is still a high-ranking - no - **the highest** ranking member of his entourage. He’s a respected war-General in his own rights, and although he politely defers to Poe in public, he doesn’t bow and scrape in front of others. It helps, sometimes, to have the ritual moment to mark the end of Public Face and the start of Private Face. Kylo _likes_ Poe’s rules. His are the only ones he’s ever felt comfortable following, and the structure is just enough to make him feel secure and only pressured in good ways. 

“My pet, my beloved…”  


Poe’s fingers are so graceful when they clasp the collar shut, the thick padlock sealing the two sides of the hinged mechanism together. It’s silver, etched deeply with Poe’s seals and insignia, and inside the metal is a message describing Kylo as owned, beloved, protected. The lock is in the form of two hands clasping the internal workings together, and it drops down from a very large O-ring, sturdy enough to take a lot of abuse. Kylo should know: he’s put it through a fair amount when he’s been hitched to furniture and driven out of his sweet mind.

Down on two knees, hands holding the velvet cushion, head bowed and hair cascading. For a long moment, he simply stays there, breathing. Feeling. Being. He can feel the tension of the day begin to drip from him like hot beads of sweat, and the light brush of fingers through his hair is a welcome greeting. 

“ _My Lord_ ,” Kylo replies, not even aware how long he’s waited before he replies in kind. He knows Poe won’t punish him needlessly. Poe only punishes him for real when he’s actually done something wrong (and Kylo can’t… actually remember that happening?) or because Kylo _feels_ he needs it. They might occasionally play-act a little, but Kylo always knows it’s not real anger, and not real wrong-doing, and so it’s safe and good and it flicks several switches really damn hard in his head.   


“I thought we’d try something new, for once.”  


Kylo looks up, curious and hopeful. Poe’s experiments are nearly always mind-blowingly incredible. Anything they do for the first time has an element of risk, and an element of chance as to whether it works or not, but Poe is smart and never launches them into something without researching, first. It’s why Kylo is more than happy to try anything Poe’s thought of, because he’s also sure that if he really didn’t enjoy it in any way that Poe would immediately stop. He doesn’t need to calculate probabilities, or check for exits, or keep an eye open because Poe does that. It’s so very, very refreshing. 

“May I ask what?”  


“It involves what’s in the footlocker,” Poe says. “Stand, and strip. Put your clothes inside the locker, and bring me what’s already in there.”  


A nod, and Kylo finds his feet at once. His toes grip the soft carpet in anticipation as he tugs his tunic up and off, and makes a little show of his ribs and stomach along the way. He still doesn’t feel all that comfortable with his own body, but he knows Poe loves it, and that’s enough for him. He doesn’t _hate_ it any more, so he’s happy to flaunt what attributes he does possess. Thumbs snick under the waistband, and he shimmies his hips to drop the loose pants and soft boxers, too. He scoops them up, taking them to the locker.

Inside, there’s a large quantity of bright, blood-red rope. Kylo’s eyes widen in pleased surprise, his mouth watering at the idea of it around him. Rope always feels good, no matter if it’s just tangled around his wrists and used for immobilisation, or if it’s spun around him like the most beautiful web-traps ever known. It’s sturdy, thuddy, rough-but-not-too-rough, secure and arousing. Poe’s gotten very good at making the knots sit in the nerve bundles, so when he moves it drives Kylo slowly out of his head. Or not so slowly. Pretty much as soon as the rope hits his skin he’s sure to start going deep under, into that peaceful other-place. He takes up the tightly wound cord, and brings it over to present to his Master.

“Are you ready for this?”  


Poe often checks, and Kylo almost always says yes. He rarely _isn’t_  ready, and on the days when he isn’t sure (or knows he isn’t), the hesitation or the way he says he is usually is enough to stop or alter things. Right now, though, he’s perfectly ready. Beyond ready.

“Yes, my Lord.”  


Poe takes the rope, and finds the middle point. That is always the starter, the place everything else flows from. Find the middle, and then work outwards. 

The Emperor feeds through the bent over centre of the rope, and then passes through the rest of the strands through the loop so it knots at his throat, the two halves of the rope falling on either side of the padlock. Poe lifts the lock, and trails the two streams down, knotting them together over his hand as he goes, making points for later. Down, down over his torso, and a knot above his filling cock. Poe always makes sure there’s space between his thighs, so even if he thrashes, he won’t injure his delicate parts. Around shaft, behind his balls, and another knot. They did try wrapping his dick one time, but it turned out to be more trouble than it was worth, so they use other things if it’s necessary, now. Up, and the two strands make tram-lines over his back. Up and over his shoulders, and then they cross over his upper torso, feeding through the strands over the front of his chest. A harness starts to form, as Poe tracks the rope in criss-cross form around both front and back, using the knots from before to secure the rope in place. 

Kylo likes this pattern a lot. It means every breath he takes is in a cocoon, without it being so tight that it stops him from moving too much. It also gives Poe something to use for purchase, which is very nice, too. He flexes against it, breathing deeply to feel the limits of his capacity, wriggling to let the tightness seep deeper into his frame. Poe’s fingers trail over the heavy gauge rope, then around the skin pulled taut below it. Every little caress sends low, warm sparks and stokes his molten core, making it slosh around inside of him, making him thud and want even more. Eyes shut, he wavers in place, gasping when a tongue laps over a nipple for a moment, making him see stars in the blackness under his eyelids.

“I want you to lie down on this table,” Poe says.  


Kylo turns his head to see. It’s one of the ones Poe likes to keep on hand during play, because the little drawers underneath hold lots of toys, and because it’s about the right height to be bent over and used on top of. There’s screwed in rings for latching cuffs to, and he has many fond memories of it. A few steps over, and he gently lowers himself down, holding the edges of the table, and leaving his feet on the floor, but spread wider. 

Poe bends his arms at the elbows, then starts to lace his two limbs together. The fresh rope is tight, and there’ll be no squirming out of this, he thinks. The not-knots lock the rope in a butterflied pattern, and - without extensive pulling apart - only a vibroblade or a lightsaber would get his arms free. They lie across the small of his back, and when he breathes he feels them, too. He shuffles in low pleasure, then suddenly there are hands behind his knees. He has to take his whole weight on his chest when Poe pushes them bent, pushes them splayed parallel to his shoulders, up and out as far as they go. It’s a weird position, and then there’s more ropes sliding around his exposed thighs. The skin there is softer, more delicate, and he shudders as Poe shores the loops up and knots above his thighs, before hooking them through his almost-too-full O-ring at his neck. Down and they cross to rehitch around his legs, meaning he can’t press his thighs together any more. He can’t do much of anything, to be honest. His arms are locked in place, his knees bent up and legs splayed wide, and all he can really do is straighten out from the ankle to the knee, like some bizarre, half-dead amphibian. His head is still free, but only to twist and turn. The rope through his collar prevents much more movement, and Kylo can’t remember ever being this constricted and restricted.

It feels… pretty damn amazing, all told. He squirms through the rope, and moans in low pleasure at how held he feels. How safe, how loved. Fingers stroke through his hair, and he purrs, softly. Just a tiny rumble as he tilts his head to look up at Poe. 

“That feel okay?”  


A nod, fervent and happy, and he smiles without artifice. “Yes.”

“You ready for what comes next?”  


Kylo is sure he is, no matter what ‘it’ is. He doesn’t expect Poe to grab a long stick with a grasping mechanism on the end. He watches snatches of what’s going on from his reclined position, sees the pole go up and over his head. There’s a scraping sound of metal on metal, and then the pole grabs more rope. Again there’s scraping, and then the pole is put to one side. 

The Knight blinks slowly as he sees several strands of heavy rope ending in fiercely-knotted carabiners. The clips look very strong, and he smiles as he feels them attach to the harness. One at each shoulder, one set at his waist, one set near his hips. He doesn’t know what’s going on until the table is wheeled out from under him, and suddenly he’s not lying on anything at all.

He’s… he’s… suspended. 

Table gone, the only thing holding him up is those six points of metal, linking rope to rope, pulleyed through hooks in the ceiling. It puts the stress across the harness, meaning his weight is spread across his torso, and he can tell through the Force that it will hold. It’s just like lying down, except… not. His weight has to go somewhere, but it’s not like being pressed onto something solid because there’s nothing _below_ him. 

Which sort of messes with his head. He’s caught in place, but there’s only air beneath. He wriggles, and it makes him sway ever so slightly back and forth.

“How does that feel?”  


Kylo forgets how to talk for a long time, before the words trickle through like water through a mountain. Slow, mineral-heavy and dark. “Good. Feels… good.” He wishes he could be more descriptive, but it’s the best he can think to offer. He tenses and flinches, making the ropes sway somewhat more, and moans again.

“…so good.” His tone is dreamy, sinking deeper by the moment. He can feel the hands that touch him, can feel the way the whole galaxy turns to a gentle rocking, and it edges him closer to bliss with each passing moment.  


“My precious pet… I’m going to use you so hard, before the night is up.”  


Kylo bleats in pleasure at the thought, his hole tensing over fresh air in anticipation of a thorough use. He hasn’t been touched at all today, he’s completely clean and dry, but he knows Poe will slather him in lube and have him begging in moments. His cock hardens more at the thought, the sudden friction between the knots making it even nicer. He nuzzles his face into Poe’s hand, making very happy noises as he does.

First Poe seems to want to check his body from head to toe. He feels curious hands pull, prod, stroke and pet over his skin, and distantly he assumes it’s a check to ensure there’s no blood-starved places. He could have told him that, but it also feels good to be touched like this, so he simply drinks the sensations in, lets the heat from his touch go all the way inside. Poe’s hands burn, and he loves it. Fingers knot into his hair, and they pull and tug, making him sway harder in the rope embrace. His stomach does lazy little jumps, and he calls out in pleasure.

It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t need to. It pushes him all the way out and _down_ , and he’s so far under he can taste the saltbed under the ocean. Above him, thick gallons, thick fathoms that swallow light whole. Only the surface holds the Light, diffuse and mellow, but down here it’s blackness and his eyes aren’t quite working. It’s not that he’s gone blind, so much as he sees and it doesn’t connect. He feels, but it’s so far away. Drifting, he loses all sense of time, all direction. No up, no down, no hot, no cold. No pleasure, no pain. Just… _being_.

He’s semi aware of the hands between his thighs, that they’ve left his hair. He can tell from afar that there’s a warm, sure hand palming his cock and balls. He feels it, and isn’t sure he’ll even be able to perform, to climax. When he goes deep enough down, arousal becomes something strange and ethereal. Right now, it just bleeds into every other good sensation, and the goopy, sticky feel between his thighs is just another note in the symphony.

The first finger in barely registers, or… it does, but it’s just a low, low tone. In and out, a slick sound of opening, of introduction, of music starting to fill the room, or fill his body. The second and third are louder, like the main tune resolves into something, and his whole frame sways, even with a hand on the rope to keep him still. His own hands don’t even tense as three fingers splay inside of him, the sensation so damn _right_. On and on and on and he’s sighing with contentment, unable to even push back on the hand. He has no purchase, no control. No anything, really. All he can do is lie here and take it, relax around their joining, enjoy everything about the moment. Poe’s ideas are always incredible. Always.

“I’m going to fuck you, now, pet. Are you ready for me?”  


“Yes.” The word even sounds dreamy to him. Distant, floaty, happy. “Yes.” He doesn’t even remember to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, he’s that far away.  


Poe moves in to stand between his legs, and the fingers withdraw from him wetly. Hands slide over his lower back, his belly, and then they’re holding on to the lines around his waist. He moans in bliss as he’s tugged backwards, the ropes swaying him towards Poe. There’s a pressure there, when they meet, and he realises it’s Poe’s stiff cock, waiting and just enjoying the thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk of his ass as his Emperor rocks him back and forth, mock-fucking without any penetration.

“Poe…”  


“It’s coming, babe. It’s coming.”  


He doesn’t need to use the titles, the honorifics. They’re just part of a ritual, but they’re not the essential thing. Right now, he’s beyond remembering protocol properly, and the terms drift in and out like his focus does. He’s so completely controlled and restrained and subdued that it wouldn’t matter what he called his beloved, he _knows_ that he’s in charge, he **knows** that he’s Master, Emperor, Owner, Controller. 

He waits, and is rewarded. There’s a hand gone from his ropes, then the next time he’s rocked back, Poe pushes in. In, in, in - so deep in that Kylo’s sure he’ll taste him in his throat - and then there’s two hands on his harness again. He’s held back - the position tilting his head a little lower than flat - and the thick, thick fullness sends a wonderful soak of sensation through him. A little light-headed - or full-headed? - from being tilted like this, he squirms just a smidgen, feeling how deep inside Poe really is.

“Just a little longer…”  


A distant voice in his head snickers that there isn’t any _longer_ left to fit in him, but then there’s hands moving him. Moving **him**. Poe stands still and uses the rope to bounce Kylo over his dick, his lover’s hips barely flexing to change the angle of each fresh penetration. Kylo’s fingers squirm, the _Force_ just there, in reach, and he can’t - can’t - _won’t_ -

Poe uses him like he weighs nothing, like he’s simply a sex toy, a vessel for him to ride into. No… physically, yes. Emotionally? No. He’s _there_. He’s there, as well as gone. He’s there because Poe loves him, because Poe tethered him to the room. He took so long to string him up, to bind him with loving hands, to send him out of the pain and discomfort of reality into his sure, sure embrace. He’s a vessel, but not an empty one. He’s a receptacle, but one held gently in both hands before it’s lifted for the kiss of lips. He moans, and his cock bounces below him, craving attention, loving the fiercer coupling as Poe picks up his speed.

Kylo arches his back, giving what little flexion he has, letting him deeper in and - _oh yes right there right there right–_

“You feel it?” Poe whispers.  


“Yes, yes, yes…”  


“Feel me deep in you?”  


“Yes, Master, _yes_.”  


“You want to come for me?”  


“ **Yes**.”  


“Then _come_.”  


Kylo does not need telling twice. One last slam down onto Poe’s shaft and he’s fighting the rope with all his physical strength as his come is milked out of him by that wicked length inside. Poe pauses, then goes back to fucking him fiercely, moving counter to the tug of the ropes, and the Knight HOWLS to the ceiling as he’s ridden like a reined trail-beast, over and over until there’s not a flicker of pleasure left in him, over and over until he’s limp and lax and buzzed. Over and over until Poe comes, too. Comes and fills him inside with his pleasure, fills him to overflowing, fills him so his hole will leak for hours. Poe’s climax is a bright, fierce, soursweet spark in Kylo’s mind. He loves to feel it, and he coasts out that sensation, his body and mind sparking and guttering in soft protest.

It seems to be forever before the high fades. Poe stays in him, only the slightest dribbles of his enjoyment streaking down to touch Kylo’s balls. Stays in him, hands on hips, kisses to his spine. He aches, but pleasantly so.

“Bring the table with the Force, pet. Put it under you again.”  


Kylo complies, lazily, no thought in his mind of rebellion or resistance. The table takes his weight, and fingers start to unravel his cord prison. Still inside him. Still joined. Soft, but there.

The Knight beams, and breathes into the wood below him.

“Thank you, Master,” he whispers.  


A kiss to the side of his jaw. “No. Thank _you_. You were incredible, Kylo. Incredible.”

Only because Poe makes him that way, Kylo thinks. But he doesn’t care, the end result is still the same: Poe happy, Kylo happy, and the world can hang for all he cares. 

Just not from Poe’s ceiling. That’s _his_ spot.


End file.
